


Beyond Lowood

by Cmdr_Spadge



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Jane!Steve, Loosely based upon Jane Eyre, M/M, Rochester!Tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-24 11:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13810278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cmdr_Spadge/pseuds/Cmdr_Spadge
Summary: Steven Grant Rogers left Lowood School at the age of twelve in order to join the Royal Navy as a ship's boy. Fifteen years later Captain Rogers returns in search of his life long friend, a comfortable retirement, and perhaps a pleasing marriage - but when said closest (and only friend) leaves to take up a position elsewhere in the country will retirement continue to suit the good Captain?Anthony Edward Stark had never been meant to inherit Thornfield Hall and he'd certainly never intended to take upon himself the care of his dead brother's illegitimate son.  With his past haunting him, the thought of returning to an estate that he once loved but now despises is a plague upon him.When fate conspires to bring these two wandering souls together they must begin to deal with their pasts as well as each other.  Can love conquer all, or will the demands of society and propriety prove too heavy to bear?And will Steven ever find out the cause of that mysterious laughter in the attic?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that has been plaguing me for months, what if Tony was Mr Rochester? What if Steve took a position as a tutor at Lowood? 
> 
> Angry, wronged, moody, insecure, Tony.
> 
> Headstrong, stubborn, all or nothing, Steve.
> 
> Will be loosely based upon the book but with the characters of Steve and Tony driving and shaping some plot points more than others. 
> 
> Will be multi-chapter with regular updates. The next chapter is already almost complete, I just needed to begin to get this out there before it drove me nuts.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are, of course, love.

 

 

**INTRODUCTION**

There is a peace to be found in simply walking out of ones lodgings before dawn and ascending the nearest patch of high grassy ground one can find; in sitting in the pre-dawn dew, basking in the glory of the songbirds as they begin their triumphal shout to the heavens once more; in trying to pick out features one knows in the landscape as the murky night ebbs beautifully and inexorably into that magical time where it is neither dark nor light and all seems possible.

Captain Steven Rogers had used the early hours of each of his days since his departure from the Navy to find that peace; had in fact almost relied upon it to centre him after his return to teaching at Lowood School. He had never enjoyed walking or any form of out-door exercise in his youth, his sickly constitution had inevitably meant his fingers and toes were soon nipped raw, his chest tight from a constant battle to scrape some air from the unforgiving cold that had always seemed to surround his Aunt Reed’s house in Gateshead. Now though, now he revelled in it, any chance he had, any excuse he could find he would be out; leaving behind the confines of the school walls, the memories of his own youth there, in order to breath deep and easy in the vast countryside that surrounded them. He even went so far as to conduct his painting classes out on the hills during the few weeks of the year he could reliably say the northern winds would not chill his charges to the bone.

All this is to say, that at a mere eight and twenty years Captain Rogers - honourably retired from Her Majesty’s Navy, reasonably pensioned and very much in charge of his own destiny – should have been excessively pleased with his life. From a boy whose own family had not given much hope that he would survive to late adolescence he had not only survived but thrived, bloomed even, not only quieted his naysayers but silenced and dismissed them for good. He could comfortably afford to marry, had indeed been inspecting property in the vicinity of the school with half an eye upon moving from the teachers lodgings and setting up his own household in anticipation of such an event.

Captain Rogers however was not a man to be so easily pleased with such an easy and comfortable life. Captain Rogers had become restless.

*

The onset of this restlessness could be pin pointed to one afternoon not two weeks ago when the departure of Captain Rogers life long friend, confidant, and mentor Mr James Buchanan Barnes had set in motion thoughts Captain Rogers believed long past him. Mr Barnes friendship had been a continual solace to him from almost the moment he arrived in Lowood as a sickly eight year old with not a friend in the world, and all through the Captains time at sea – indeed had Mr Barnes not lost his arm as a child it was widely held as fact that the both of them would have left together at the tender age of twelve in order to seek out adventure, fortune, and perhaps regain some control of their own destiny.

The departure south of his oldest friend to take up as the superintendent of a well respected school in –shire, had not only deprived our hero of a well cherished companion but also seemed to have removed with him every settled feeling, every harmonious thought, the Captain had ever had about remaining in Lowood. Left alone in this environment his thoughts began to turn once more toward the wider world and his courage began to gather and grow until he was confident that there was yet more for a man such as himself to experience.

As a consequence of this he found himself at the end of a dreary autumn day striding across the few miles into Lowton, an advertisement and the money to pay for its printing in the ‘–shire Herald’ siting in his coat pocket. A plan had been formed; he would take up as an instructor to young gentlemen in private houses and travel across the country, perhaps even the continent, as he executed his duty. The advertisement ran thus: -

‘ _A gentleman accustomed to tuition is desirous of meeting with a situation in a private family where the children are under fourteen. He is qualified to teach the usual branches of English education, together with French, drawing, naval history and horsemanship. Address S.G.R. Post Office, Lowton, --shire_.’

*

Upon Captain Rogers return the following week, ostensibly to be measured for new winter boots, the old lady handed over just one letter.

‘ _If S.G.R. who advertised in the –shire Herald of last Thursday, possesses the acquirements mentioned; and if he is in the position to give satisfactory references as to character and competency; a situation can be offered where there is but one pupil, a little boy, under ten years of age, and where the salary is thirty pounds per annum. S.G.R is requested to send references, name, address, and all particulars to the direction: -_  
_‘Mrs Hogan, Thornfield, near Millcote, --shire._ ’

The handwriting was beautiful and flowing and the Captain fancied that he could imagine the prim and proper lady of the house who had composed it and with that hope began to stir once more in his chest. The malaise that had overtaken him these last few weeks was lifting already, despite there being weeks more back and forth to come before his departure to Thornfield. Action, interest, and unpredictability would – for a short period at the very least – now be returning to his life.

 

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

“How do you do, Captain? I’m afraid you’ve had a tedious ride, Harold drives so slowly: you must be cold, come to the fire.”

“Mrs Hogan I presume?” asked Steven.

“Yes, yes, do sit down. Please, call me Pepper. Everyone else in this place does. We’ve all been here so long, bumping along together - the ones of us who are left of course - that formality really only comes to it when there’s a gathering. Not that we’ve had one of those in many years now, but I live in hope. Your journey was not too arduous I hope?”

The lady of the house is absolutely not what he expected, she is young and full of life, bustling and friendly in a way he has seldom encountered before outside of a dock side tavern. He finds himself for the first time since James had left Lowood relaxing fully into a chair and into his surroundings, beginning to allow himself to be happy and content with his present situation. “It was long and cold madam, but nothing near the worst journey I have suffered through.”

Plates of cold sandwiches and trays with hot drinks were being brought in by a serving girl and placed on a small table adjacent to his chair, while the knitting and sewing that had been out was gathered and tidied away. Steven allowed himself leave to study the room; it seemed to be a little snug abutting a much larger kitchen and was filled with shelves of the sort of mis-matched crockery that a family acquires over the years, the two large comfortable wooden chairs sitting either side of the fire each had a small table and between them was a rag rug, soft and faded with age. Overall the room gave off a homely and comfortable feel that he had dared not hope for in his new situation.

“Shall I have the pleasure of meeting Master Hogan tonight?”

There was a slight pause during which the lady seemed to give much thought to the question.

“Master Hogan? Oh, you mean Master Parker! Parker is the name of your pupil, Captain.”

“Please, if I am to address you so informally then you must also become comfortable with my given name, it is Steven and I shall hope we remain upon terms friendly enough that it will always be.” He found himself saying, with real honesty and hopefulness. “Is the pupil then not your son?”

“Oh no, I have only my husband, Harold. I am quite glad you are come, we shall have some life about the place again.” As the lady began to explain how empty Thornfield had been and felt for the preceding years, and how with the arrival of a child and himself she felt it becoming alive again once more, Steven felt himself more and more drawn to this worthy woman and expressed his sincere desire that he would be as agreeable as she anticipated.

It was not until he was being shown to his room that he began to appreciate the scale of the house he had come into. Arriving in the dark and then spending time in the cosy room by the kitchen had given him a misplaced idea of the scope of the property. The hall that he had barely glanced at upon his initial entry, so keen was he to regain some warmth about his toes, was large and high ceilinged, with oak steps and banisters. The staircase window was high and latticed and both it and the long gallery into which the bedroom doors opened, looked as if they belonged to a church rather than a house. A vault-like air pervaded the stairs and gallery and he was glad when finally ushered into his chambers to find them of small dimensions and furnished in an ordinary modern style.

Fatigue was beginning to catch upon him after his journey and he found himself rushing through his evening routine in order that he might grasp at as much rest as possible before the morning.

*

The next morning, on his way to discover what he should be about and seek out an introduction to his pupil, Steven once again passed the hall door, and seeing it partly open stepped outside to examine in the light of an autumn sun his new lodgings. The mansion was three stories high, of proportion not vast, though considerable; a gentleman’s manor house, not a nobleman’s seat: battlements gave it a picturesque look. It’s grey front stood out well from a rookery, whose tenants flew over the lawn and grounds to alight in a great meadow, where an array of mighty old thorn trees, strong, knotty, and as broad as oaks, at once explained the etymology of the mansions designation. What a grand place this was for a lonely couple such as the Hogans to inhabit.

“What! Out already?” Called Mrs Hogan. “I see you are an early riser. How do you like Thornfield?”

“Very much so.”

“Yes, it is a pretty place but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr Stark should take it in his head to come and reside here permanently; or at least, visit it rather oftener: great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor.”

“Mr Stark? Who is that?”

“..the owner of Thornfield? Did you not know he was called Stark?” she asked.

“I thought Thornfield belonged to you?” For the first time since his arrival the previous evening Steven felt an uncomfortable buzz about his chest, although if pressed he wouldn’t have been able to explain what caused his unease.

“Oh bless yourself, no! I’m just the housekeeper – the manager. To be sure we are distantly related, cousins through his mothers side, and have been firm friends since childhood, but no. I consider myself quite the ordinary housekeeper.”

“And the little boy – my pupil?”

“He is Mr Stark’s ward; he commissioned me to find a tutor for him. Here he comes now.”

The unease that had begun to build in Steven’s chest dissipated almost immediately. Had he not been so exhausted from weeks of preparation for his move and then an arduous and cold journey he should probably have realised that his initial assumptions regarding the affable lady made no sense. He now felt, if possible, even more at ease in his new situation; he had become friends with someone in the very same position as himself, a dependant of Thornfield and the equality between them was real and not the result of an uncertain condescension.

“Good morning, Master Peter. Come and speak to the gentleman who is to tutor you and make you into a fine young man.”

*

It was evident immediately that while Peter was exceptionally bright, he had fallen out of the habit of a structured day, so they began by occupying themselves fully in the library of a morning but once noon arrived they would separate and go to their own occupations until dinner brought them together once more.

Steven had begun to form the habit of sketching different areas and views of Thornfield in his afternoons and he was just on his way to his apartments to collect his things when he passed an open door that he had not ventured past before. Through it he discovered a huge dining room, a large stately apartment with walnut panelled walls, one vast stained window and a lofty ceiling, nobly moulded. Pepper was dusting some fine vases that stood on a side board.

“What a beautiful room! I had no idea this was all here!” he exclaimed.

“I like to keep everything ready and aired just in case Mr Stark comes back. It isn’t very often that he visits but he’s never given us much warning of his arrival and I’ll not be bothered with his griping about covers and drapes and too much activity around him when he arrives.”

“Is he an exacting sort of man then?” he asked, curiosity piqued.

“Not particularly, but he is a gentleman, with gentlemen’s tastes and habits and he expects to have things managed along those lines.”

“Do you like him? Is he generally liked?”

“Oh yes, his family have always been well respected in this area, him particularly so. He is perhaps a little peculiar to some people but I’ve known him all my life and I’m very fond of him. Although most days I would not admit that to his face for all the pennies in his pocket.” She laughed to herself.

“In what way is he peculiar?”

“It’s not an easy thing to describe, nothing striking or immediately obvious, but you feel it when he speaks to you. Oftentimes you’re not certain whether he is in jest or entirely serious, and he has such a brain on him that most people struggle to keep up when his conversation turns to the sciences and philosophies.”

As they had been talking about Mr Stark they had meandered back out into the hallway and Pepper proposed to show him around the rest of the house now that she realised how little of the formal areas he’d explored alone. He followed her up stairs and downstairs, admiring as he went, for all was well and handsome. As they perused some of the small rooms Steven asked, “Do the servants sleep in these rooms?”

“No, they occupy a range of smaller apartments to the back; no one ever sleeps here. I would always say, if there was a ghost at Thornfield, this is where you would find it.”

“I think I agree: so you have no ghost then?”

“None that I ever heard of.” She replied smiling. “I’m off up onto the leads now, will you come and see the view?”

*

Nothing in the prospect from the roof was exceptional, and yet all together he could not help but feel extremely pleased with it, so pleased that as they descended back through the attic toward the main part of the house once more he began to describe how in summer he hoped to capture it on canvas and perhaps have it hung in his apartments. As they paced softly on towards the main house once more, the last sound Steven expected to hear was a laugh. It was a curious laugh; distinct, formal, mirthless. He stopped: the sound ceased, only for an instant; it began again, louder: for at first, though distinct, it was very low. It passed off in a clamorous peal that seemed to wake an echo in every lonely chamber; though it originated but in one.

“Who is that? Did you hear that?” he asked Pepper.

“Some of the servants very likely. Perhaps Grace Poole, she often sews up here and we hear her and Leah being noisy together.”

The laugh repeated in its low, syllabic tone, and terminated in an odd murmur.

“Grace!” Exclaimed the housekeeper.

Steven really did not expect any Grace to answer; for the laugh was as tragic, as preternatural a laugh as any he had ever heard. The door nearest where they stood opened however, and out came a stern and square figure in her thirties with a hard, stern face. An apparition less ghostly could scarcely be conceived.

“Too much noise Grace, remember directions!” Grace curtseyed silently and returned through her door. “She’s a person we have to sew and assist Leah with her housemaid’s work. Not altogether unobjectionable in some points, but she does well enough. By-the-by, how are you getting on with your new pupil?”

*

The winter was a long and dreary one and December proved particularly brutal that year, even Steven, with his great love of being out of doors and as fit and healthy as he had ever been, found himself more inclined toward staying by the fireside. One afternoon in January Mrs Hogan begged a holiday for Peter, who seemed to be developing a terrible cold and, remembering how miserable he had often felt in his sickly youth, Steven complied.

The day had turned out fine and calm, although still very cold, and he found himself tired of sitting still in the house; the almost complete confinement of the past few months wearing thin against his natural inclination to be in nature. Mrs Hogan had just finished a letter which would need posting, and so he gathered his cloak and gloves and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance of two miles ought to provide him with a pleasant afternoon stroll and clear some of the smog of inaction from his brain.

The ground was hard, the air still, and the path toward the village deserted. Almost as soon as he exited the court yard he began to feel himself improved, the sluggishness that inaction always brought him these days, the dissatisfaction he had allowed to begin to creep about himself, both were banished within a mere mile of the gates of Thornfield. So lifted was he that he decided to take a pause upon the stile situated about halfway up the hill to Hay in order that he might try and memorise the vista about him and commit it to a sketch upon his return to the hall.

The evening calm was betrayed only by the movement of the springs nearby, a calming tinkle that much added to the atmosphere of the place. Just as he was about to gather himself together and continue upon his journey a rude noise broke through, at once far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp; a metallic clatter upon the causeway which could only signal the imminent arrival of a horse and rider. The windings of the path yet hid them but as he waited for them to pass that he may go about his business, a great dog - with long hair and a white and black face, came rushing through, under the bushes. For all Steven’s size now the creature seemed to him a lion like creature, it’s enormous head passing him without a second glance. The horse followed, a tall steed made more imposing by the upright figure upon its back. They passed, and on to Hay Steven continued, a few steps only having been accomplished before he heard a sliding sound and an exclamation of ‘What the deuce is to do now?’ and a clattering tumble.

Man and horse were down, they had slipped upon a sheet of ice glazing the causeway. The dog had now bounded back, and seeing its master in a predicament, began to bark until the surrounding hills echoed the sound. He snuffled around the prostrate pair and then ran towards Steven, who by now had already began to move back towards the traveller who was himself beginning the struggle to free himself of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous that he could not have been much injured but the question was still to be asked by anyone who thought themselves civilised.

“Are you injured, sir?” Steven called out as he approached.

The man was swearing vigorously which prevented his immediate reply.

“Can I do anything?” He called again.

“You must just stand to one side. She’ll probably kick out once she’s righted herself.” He answered as he rose, first to his knees, then to his feet. A heaving stamping clattering process then began, accompanied by barking and baying which effectively removed Steven some yards distant and although he felt the rider was probably fit to continue unaided he would not find it in himself to leave until he was certain the even had taken place. The horse was re-established, and the dog silenced with a ‘Down, Pilot!’ The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the stile whence Steven had just risen, and sat down.

“If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one, either from Thornfield Hall or from Hay.”

“Thank you, but I shall do. I have no broken bones, only a sprain,” and again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”

Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright; as he approached further Steven could see him plainly enough. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur collared, and steel clasped; it’s details were not apparent but Steven traced the general points of above middling height, possibly almost as tall as himself, and considerable breadth of chest and strength across his shoulders. He had a warm glow about his skin, with wild black curls falling around his face and large dark eyes. He currently looked stern and ireful but what man who had been thrown from his horse would not. He was past youth but had not reached middle age; perhaps he might be thirty-five, and Steven was shocked to find himself thinking that he was quite possibly the most handsome man he had ever encountered.

*

“I can not think of leaving you here, sir, not at so late hour in this solitary lane, until I have seen you fit to mount your horse.”

For the first time, the stranger looked directly at Steven. “I should think you ought to be home yourself, where do you come from?”

“From just below, it’s a pleasant enough walk along to the village and I have errands to attend to before I retire back that way.”

“You live just- do you mean the house with the battlements? Thornfield?”

“Indeed.”

“You are not a servant at the hall of course, look at your cloak. You are –“ He stopped, ran his eye across Steven’s attire as though hoping it would glean him some small clue as to his origins and purpose at that house.

“I am the tutor.” Steven smiled.

“Ah! The tutor!” He repeated. “Deuce take me, if I had not forgotten! The tutor!” Again, his eyes travelled across Steven’s raiment. Just as a blush was beginning to form upon the back of the good Captain’s neck at being so openly appraised the man began another attempt to rise.

“I cannot commission you to fetch help, but you may help me a little yourself if you would be so kind. Do you have a stick or cane of some sort upon your person?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Try and get a hold of the horses bridle? See if you can’t lead her over to me.”

Grabbing the bridle was easy enough to do but she became skittish almost immediately upon realising it was not her master who held on and would not, for all of Steven’s experience with horses, move an inch that he asked of her. The traveller watched and eventually laughed, a beautiful clear sound that seemed to fill the causeway. “Well then, you silly old mare; I suppose I shall have to walk myself to you. I must beg of you to come here and please excuse me, necessity compels me to make you useful.”

He laid a heavy arm upon Steven’s shoulder, and leaning into that with some force managed to limp over to the horse. Having once caught the bridle he mastered it directly, and using Steven’s shoulder as an extra aid, sprang into his saddle; grimacing grimly as he made the effort, for it seemed to wrench his sprain.

“Now,” he said, releasing his lip from a hard bite, “if you could hand me my whip, I believe it lies under the hedge.. that’s it, my thanks to you, sir. The night draws in, perhaps you should make haste with your errands and return as fast as you can.” A dazzling smile was here directed towards Steven, causing a quickening of breath and the return of his earlier blush, and with that the rider tipped his hat and headed off with a touch of spurred heel, making the horse start, rear, and then bound away; the dog rushing in their traces.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steven returns home to find the master has arrived in Thornfield.

The rest of Steven’s journey passed in a blur, he had a vague notion of entering the post office and engaging in polite chat with the one or two people he met there but there was no solid memory there, his mind was too much abuzz with the strange traveller he had encountered. 

Never before had such a brief meeting, such an unremarkable conversation, filled his head and senses quite like this one. He found that as much as he may try and move himself to think upon more genteel thoughts he would invariably find himself returning to the strangers captivating smile, his strength of arm, the delicate gleam of gold Steven had discovered in his eyes as he’d drawn closer to help the man back onto his mount. 

Did the man live locally? He’d spoken of Thornfield as though he should be aware of the staff retained there. Would Steven ever see him again? If he did would he react in the same way, seemingly enchanted from just a brief encounter with him? Or was it some nefarious magic played upon him by the spirits and sprites of the causeway, luring him to their trap and making themselves merry with his discomfort? 

All he could think upon clearly at that moment was that he needed to return to the Hall, bid goodnight to Mrs Hogan, and retire. If he was to lose himself in his own head he had much rather do it before a fire than in the freezing lanes and hills surrounding Thornfield, and if he failed to compose himself it would be all the better to be shut away from prying eyes.

 

*

 

Upon his return, the Hall was not as dark as he had expected; a warm glow suffused both the entrance and the lower steps of the great oak staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining room, whose doors stood open, showing a genial fire in the grate, warmth glancing onto the marble hearth and brass fire-irons, revealing the draperies and polished furniture in a most pleasant radiance. It revealed too, a group near the mantelpiece: Steven had scarcely caught it, and scarcely become aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, amongst which he could distinguish the tones of Peter, when the door closed.

He hastened towards Mrs Hogan’s snug, preparing to excuse himself from the revelry: there was a fire there too, but no candle, and no sign of the good lady herself. Instead, all alone and sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, he beheld a great black and white longhaired dog. It was so like the one from the lane that he moved forward and said, “Pilot?” and the thing got up and walked towards him; snuffling and eager for the attention, wagging his great tail. After a few moments indulgence Steven rang for a candle, and perhaps for some assurances as to whether his fevered mind had begun playing tricks upon on him. Leah entered.

“What dog is this, Leah?”

“He came with the master, sir, Mr Stark, he is just arrived.”

Steven’s mouth seemed to dry up all at once. “Indeed! Is Mrs Hogan with him?” 

“Yes, and Master Peter; they are in the dining-room, and Harold is gone for a surgeon: Mister Stark had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.”

“Ah!” He murmured weakly. “Did he say what happened?”

“He seems to think some sort of spirit or warlock crossed him in the lane and spun him out of his saddle. He’s a funny one at times, sir, and you often struggle to clear understand what he’s trying to say.”

He barely managed to restrain a laugh at that, hysteria rising through his chest. “Are there candles about and ready, Leah? I should like to retire, the cold has taken more from me than I expected it would.” 

He would normally have been mortified with himself at such lack of manners but he found he simply could not face the master of the house tonight; not after spending miles of walking thinking of nothing but him. Of all the people for the stranger from the lane to be, what cruel trick of fate to make it his master, the man upon whom his very comfort now depended, the man with whom he could never really hope to be an equal to, or a friend of. 

Afraid he might be under some spell and say much more than he ought should he be introduced to Mister Stark tonight, he began up the stairs towards his apartments. It was, he felt, much better to retreat and gather his wits about himself once more; there would be plenty of time for introductions on the morrow. 

 

*

Mr Stark, it seems, by the surgeon’s orders, also went to bed early that night; nor did he rise soon the next morning. When he did descend from his chambers it was to attend to business: his agent and some of his tenants were arrived, and waiting to speak to him. 

Peter had lost his schoolroom in the library: it would now be in daily requisition as a reception-room for callers. A fire had been lit in an apartment up stairs, and there between them Steven, Peter, and Harold carried up what books they might need for the next week or so, arranging the new room to Steven’s preferences. 

He discerned in the course of that first morning that Thornfield Hall was a changed place: no longer still and peaceful, it echoed every hour or two to a knock at the door or a clang of the bell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different keys below: a rill from the outer world was flowing through it; it had a master once more: Steven, for his part, liked it all the better.

Peter was not easy to teach that morning; he simply could not apply himself and kept running over to the bannisters to see if he could catch a glimpse of Mr Stark; he began to coin pretexts which might allow him to go downstairs and visit the library, a place Steven knew he would not be welcomed at this time. When it became clear he was to sit still and continue with his lessons he began to talk incessantly of Mister Stark, and to conjecture what presents he might have brought for him. 

“He always brings me such fantastical things, I just wish he would have told me last night! My brain cannot take in another thing today until I find out what they maybe!” Peter sighed dramatically.

Steven for his part had to glance away to hide his smile at the boy’s enthusiasm, and gather himself before turning back to try- once again, and begin upon the arithmetic Peter had ignored all morning. 

As dusk began to fall the workbooks were cleared away and the comparative silence from below suggested that Mr Stark was now at liberty, so Peter was granted permission to leave his schoolroom. Left alone, Steven wandered to the window; but nothing was to be seen thence: deepening twilight and snowflakes together thickened the air, and hid all but the very closest shrubs on the lawn. The curtain was let down, and he returned to the fireside.

In the clear embers he began to trace the view of the causeway from yesterdays walk, picking out the small stream and the ice upon which the master’s horse must have slipped. Just as he had begun to pick out the detailing for the great dog, Mrs Hogan entered the room: breaking up the fiery mosaic he’d been piecing together, and scattering too some heavy and unwelcome thoughts that were beginning to throng upon his solitude. 

“Mr Stark would be glad if you and your pupil would take tea with him in the drawing-room this evening,’ she said, ‘he has been so much engaged all day that he could not ask to see you before. Six o’clock will be the time more than likely; he keeps early hours when he’s out in the country. All the longer time for him to sit by the fire and brood afterwards I suppose.” The final part was muttered to herself as she shook the bottom of her dress out and Steven was fairly certain he wasn’t supposed to have heard it. 

“Does he expect us to dress for dinner?”

“I always do, my general day dresses are for working after all, but I shouldn’t worry about yourself, you look just dashing as you are Captain.” 

He glanced sharply towards her at that, feeling he was being made fun of, but her face was honest and open, lit with a large friendly smile, so he allowed his blush to show on his face as he thanked her, and they began to move out of the schoolroom, chatting idly about their respective days.

 

*

Two wax candles stood lighted on the table, and two on the mantelpiece; basking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Pilot – Peter knelt near him, playing with what appear to be a magnifying glass and a pile of rocks. Half reclined on a couch appeared Mr Stark, his foot supported by a cushion. He was watching Peter and the dog: the fire shining full onto his face. Steven knew his traveller; his thick black hair falling to waves that were neither long nor too short, his strong brow, his roman nose, all were just as had he had been remembering since their first meeting and none of them were less striking now than at that first encounter. His shape, now that Steven could see it, was good and athletic, with a clear and solid strength running through him.

While Mr Stark must have been aware of their entrance he never lifted his head at their approach, continuing to stare at the boy and the dog instead. He seemed to have a heavy air about him this evening, and his mouth was set in a grim line.

“Here is Captain Rogers, sir. I’ll go and set about the tea things.” Mrs Hogan said in a quiet way, it seemed unusual to Steven, who had seen nothing but vitality and mirth from the good lady since his arrival.

“Let Captain Rogers be seated,” said he: and there was something in the forced stiff bow, the lack of eye contact, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed to soothe any nerves Steven might have had about this meeting, and calm any flights of fancy his imagination may have been taking. A reception of finished politeness would have set him ill at ease, he could not have returned it with the proper elegance or grace; but harsh caprice laid him under no obligation, and in fact gave him the advantage. He had had years of indifference directed toward him, from his Aunt, his teachers at Lowood, and his superiors in the Navy; another instance would hardly be enough to set him ill at ease.

Mrs Hogan returned shortly, Leah following behind her with the tea tray. As she proceeded to arrange cups spoons etc, Steven and Peter moved toward the table but the master of house did not leave his couch, or for that matter, his melancholy. 

“Will you hand Mr Stark his cup? Peter is still a tad too excitable and may spill it, and the last thing we need is more brooding.” 

“I heard that!” shouted the master.

“Hmm. Quite so.” Was the matter of fact response from his housekeeper.

“Mister Stark?” began Peter, interrupting what seemed to be the beginning of an oft-played bickering match. “Did you bring Captain Rogers a present too?”

“Who talks of presents?” he said gruffly: “Did you expect a gift, Captain Rogers? Are you fond of them?” And for the first time he looked directly at Steven, with eyes that seemed as irate as they were piercing.

Steven took his time returning to his seat and arranging himself so he was comfortable before replying. “I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generally thought to be pleasant things I believe.” Here he gave him a small smile before taking a sip of his tea.

“Generally thought? But what do you think?”

“I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not? And one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as to it nature.”

“Ah, whereas the boy goes directly to his point, you think to beat about the bush.”

“I hardly think that to be the case. Peter has a claim upon you; he assures me it is your custom to bring him gifts upon your return to the Hall. As I have no such previous claim, it would be puzzling of me to expect the same, would it not?”

“Do not think to fall back on over-modesty! I have examined Peter, and you have made great strides with the boy. He is exceptionally bright, but - as is the want of all boys of his age and energy, he lacks focus. Yet in a short time he has made much improvement.” 

“Then I shall take this as my present; praise of their pupils is the mead a tutor most coverts.” 

“Hmph!” said Mr Stark, and he returned to taking his tea in silence.

When the tea tray was taken away, Peter began leading his tutor around the room, showing off the beautiful books and ornaments on the consoles; they were soon were interrupted in this by Mr Starks request that they come and seat themselves with him by the fire. 

“You have been resident in my house three months?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you came from?”

“Lowood School in –shire. I returned there after my time at sea.”  
“A puzzle for another day I think.” He was studying Steven now, with a fierceness the man had seldom encountered. “How long were you at Lowood?” 

“Four years initially. A little under three upon my return.”

“Four years there as a child! You must be tenacious of life! I thought half the time in such a place would have done for any constitution. No wonder you still hold the look of another world, I marvelled where you had got that sort of face. When you came upon me in Hay Lane last night, I thought unaccountably of fairy tales, and had half a mind to demand whether you had bewitched my horse: I am not yet sure you didn’t… Who are your parents?”

“I have none.”

“Well, if you disown your parents you must have some sort of kinsfolk: uncles and aunts?”

“No; none that I ever saw.”

“Who recommended that you come here?”

“I did not need a recommendation. I secured the position for myself.” 

“Ah, a very prideful answer. That’s good, for I was beginning to believe you were without flaw, Captain.”

At that Steven blushed and broke his gaze away with a tilt of his head. 

“It’s a good job he did look to find employment or we should have all gone quite mad here this winter. Steven has been quite the invaluable companion to us all this last three months.” Said Mrs Hogan, and although nothing of her countenance looked anything other than serene, Steven had the distinct impression that Mr Stark had just been lightly scolded. 

“Don’t trouble yourself to give him a character, Pepper,” returned Mr Stark: “eulogiums will not bias me; I shall judge for myself. He began by felling my horse.”

“Sir?” Puzzled Mrs Hogan

“I have him to thank for this sprain.”

The lady looked bewildered, but chose to hold her tongue and continue to watch them in silence. 

“What were your opinions of the man who directs Lowood? Brocklehurst is it?” he turned back upon Steven.

“I disliked him upon both occasions of being there. He is a harsh man, pompous and meddling. During my initial residence there, he starved us when he had the sole superintendence of the provisions, and he bored us with long lectures and evening readings about sudden deaths and judgements, which made us afraid to go to bed. I found him no less irritating upon my return.” 

“You are certainly forthright in expressing your opinions.”

“You asked me a question, sir, that I saw no reason to reply to with half truths and flattery. What is Mr Brocklehurst’s reputation to me? The man is needlessly unpleasant and it should be known amongst anyone who might have the misfortune to be acquainted with him.” The dull light in the room made it very difficult to read Mr Starks reaction to this but Steven could have sworn a slight lift to the corner of his mouth could be detected.

“Peter showed me some sketches this morning, which he said were yours. I don’t know whether they were entirely of your doing: probably another master aided you?”

“No, indeed!” He interjected.

“Ah! There it is again, that pricking of pride! Well, fetch me your portfolio, if you can vouch for its contents being original – I mean, fetch it if you please. Excuse my tone of command; I am used to saying ‘Do this,’ and it is done: I cannot alter my customary habits for the new inmate in such a short time.”

The portfolio was duly brought in from the library, and Mr Stark began his scrutiny. He laid a few aside and let Peter and Mrs Hogan take the rest off to the main table to look through them at their leisure. The ones set aside were mostly seascapes, all with an element of the supernatural about them, but anyone looking upon them would have struggled to pin point what exactly it was about them that gave them that bent. 

“Where did you get your ideas for these? What copy did you have?” 

“Simply my head, sir. They were painted during the few precious afternoons and holidays I had to myself after my return to the school.”

“Were you happy, when you painted them?” he asked looking intently at Steven. That struck him as a strange thing to ask of someone in your employ that you had know for mere hours, but he tried to answer the best that he could.

“At the time I believed so, I was content, I was busy, and painting is one of the keenest pleasures I have.”

“And you felt satisfied with the result of your ardent labour?”

“Ha! Not at all! In each case I had imagined something I was entirely incapable of placing onto the paper. The real images - the ones that ought to be, torment me daily; I often go as if to begin them again, to improve upon them. It is always in vain however; I stop before I even really begin to get started: I shall never have that perfection that I see so clearly in my minds eye and I must bring myself to terms with the loss of it.” 

As he had been replying, Mr Stark had begun to lean forward towards him from his seat on the couch, his eyes wide in what seemed like shock and understanding. They held the look for what seemed to Steven to be minutes before Peter bumped into something by the dining table and the master of the house pulled back, visibly shaking himself and getting out his pocket watch.

“It is nine o’clock: what are you about, Captain Rogers, to let Peter sit up so long? Take him to bed. I wish you all good night now.” He said tersely, making a movement of his hand towards the door, eye fixed firmly back upon the fire. 

Steven made his bow and received a frigid one in return before gathering his portfolio about him and exiting with the boy and Mrs Hogan.

“You said that Mr Stark was not a strikingly peculiar man, Pepper.” He observed after settling Peter to bed and joining her and Harold sitting by the kitchen-snugs fire.

“Well is he?”

“I think so. He is very changeful and abrupt.”

“I’ve become so accustomed to him that I hardly notice. His brain works in leaps ahead of everyone around him, so that to us, what he is asking may not come together to make sense at all, but to him it is all perfectly reasonable. I never think of it much anymore; and then, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.”

“Why?”

“Partly because it’s his nature – and we can none of us help our nature; and partly, he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him, and make his spirits unequal.”

“What about?”

“Family troubles, for one thing.”

“But he has no family.”

“Not now, but he has had – or at least, I should say, relatives. He lost his elder brother a few years since. He’s only been in possession of the property around nine years.”

“Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?”

“Why no – perhaps not. I believe there was some misunderstanding between them. His brother and father conspired together to ensure that the youngest son – Mr Anthony, should still have wealth, a name and consequence without inheriting any of old Mr Stark’s holdings – he didn’t like to split it up you see; and soon after Anthony came of age, steps were taken that were not quite fair and made a great deal of mischief. Old Mr Stark had combined with his eldest son to bring Anthony into what he considered a painful position, for the sake of making his fortune. What the precise nature of that was I never clearly knew, but his spirit could not brook what he had to suffer in it. He is not very forgiving: he broke with his family, and now for many years has lived a restless and unsettled kind of life. I don’t think he’s ever been resident at Thornfield for a fortnight together, since the death of his brother without a will, left him master of the estate: and, indeed, no wonder he shuns the old place.”

“Why should he shun it?”

Here there was a great cough from Harold, the most noise Steven had heard out of him in days, and almost a stutter before she answered evasively, “Perhaps he thinks it gloomy.”

Their conversation continued for sometime but it was evident that Mrs Hogan wished to avoid further concentration on Mr Starks trails and Steven finished the night with many more questions than answers. Indeed, as he walked back towards his chambers he realised that the only thing he had really learned with any clarity at all about his stranger from the causeway was his given name.


End file.
